Small Comfort
by ilovetvalot
Summary: Comfort should be taken wherever you find it. This story is dedicated to my son, Elijah Michael Byers (February 28, 2003 - April 27, 2003).


"_**A flower bloomed already wilting. Beginning its life with an early ending." ~ **_**R.J. Gonzales, American author**

**Small Comfort**

Leaves rustled in the trees as he stood staring at the stone slab marked with his son's name, and David Rossi blinked back tears. How could someone born so small – on Earth such a short time – have made such a lasting impression on his soul?

James David Rossi had lived exactly twenty-three hours, forty-one minutes…but in that small time, he managed to carve out a piece of his father's heart, leaving his own indelible and undeniable mark. Rubbing his aching chest, Dave inhaled deeply as he felt the familiar sting of loss and regret.

Many comforters had told him the pain would lessen with the passage of time; that each day would become easier to face. Like a fool, he'd believed them.

In hindsight, he could attest to the fact that those well-meaning souls had been idiots. Or, maybe, he'd been the bigger idiot. He'd actually expected them to be right, waiting each year for that all-encompassing grief that gripped him with steely talons to lessen and ebb. Moronic, he knew. It had taken him nearly a decade to figure out that the pain wasn't going anywhere.

Nothing would ever dull the brutal agony of burying your child. Nothing ever could. After all these years, he could still remember the feel of his baby's warm body nestled against him. If he closed his eyes, he could still smell that fresh, innocent aroma of an unsullied soul. He could still hear that one faint cry his little boy had made when he'd arrived in the world months too soon.

His child had been born already dying. James' young life had been cut short by a fickle God. And the cruelest irony was that he'd never known how much he'd wanted to be a father until the doctor had told him his boy was gone. Too late, he had realized that for a brief moment in time, he'd held the entire world in his hands.

Taking a step forward, he knelt on the dry grass and ran his fingers across the cold marble, his fingers lovingly tracing his son's name. This part never got easier – looking at the final resting place of his child, knowing that James would never take his first steps… never eat his first birthday cake.

And yet, year after year, he made this pilgrimage to his son's grave, though. David owed it to the tiny life he'd helped create to honor his memory and recognize that, for however brief a time, James _had_ lived. There were those that thought he came here to torture himself.

Those people were mistaken.

Grievously wrong.

If anything, the opposite was true. This place eased his suffering, offering him a balm that soothed the anguish that came with losing someone important to him and saturated his soul with the regret of chances lost. He sat here because it offered him a small measure of contentment. The serene mossy knoll where he'd chosen to lay his son to rest was one of the most peaceful he'd found on Earth. The flowers surrounding the grave were vibrant and alive even now in the early fall. This small piece of ground was his validation point. He hired the best gardener in DC to ensure that this plot of ground was carefully tended, every attention given to detail. This place was sacred to him, mostly because it was the only tangible evidence left that his child had _mattered._

James David Rossi had made a difference while he'd drawn breath; his life had counted for something. His brief life had offered his father a valuable lesson - to never take a single second you had with someone for granted because a long life wasn't guaranteed at birth.

So, he came here to cherish his memories, few though they were. He took the afternoon each year to relive those precious minutes when he'd been able to call himself a dad.

Most of all, he came here for one express reason.

Resting the palm of his hand against the cool stone, he smiled and whispered, "Happy Birthday, James."

_**Finis**_

* * *

_**This story is dedicated to my son, Elijah Michael Byers (February 28, 2003 – April 27, 2003). For such a brief time, we held you in our arms. Taken from us entirely too soon, you left a void behind that can never be filled. You are gone from our world, but never forgotten in our hearts.**_

_**Love,**_

_**Mama and Daddy**_

"_**There's no tragedy in life like the death of a child. Things never get back to the way they were." ~ **_**Dwight D. Eisenhower, American president**


End file.
